CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Journey

On a warm Sago evening, Beauty followed Owaine out of the city. All that she owned in the realm could fit into a small saddlebag and she had packed it before Owaine had even readied the horses. As they went on their way, he gave her a thick cloak to cover her white hair, which made her sweat in the heat, and a pair of large gloves.

“We don’t want no trouble leaving and they’ll be useful on the journey,” he said, hoisting her into Comrade’s saddle. “We’re going somewhere that ain’t so hot.”

Beauty did not need to bid farewells, but as they rode through the iron gates of Rose Herm, she looked over her shoulder. In a far window of the mansion, she thought she saw a figure watching, his eyes following her as she disappeared. But when the house slipped away, she felt nothing.

The streets of Sago were dangerous in the current turmoil and would be worse still at night. Beauty remembered her last trip into the shantytowns, and her hands trembled as they held the reins. Comrade tossed his head in response, used to trotting down the boulevard and not understanding why it troubled her so.

As they rode into a busier area, Owaine slowed his horse to a walk. He had chosen a bay named Sable from the carriage horses on account of her stocky build and sweet nature, in the hope that she would make a good field horse.

“Ride briskly,” Owaine whispered, pulling up beside her.

Comrade was so tall that Beauty had to look down on Owaine.

“It should take us a few hours to get out of the city. Make sure you stay close.”

They pressed on, traveling into the heart of the shantytowns. Shadows ran past them in alleyways and they cantered through a brawl in a square, the sound of State officials blowing shrill whistles echoing after them. Bodies slept on corners and under rubble while night-women prowled the streets. The darkness was thick—the moonlight could not penetrate the deep bowels of the slums, and the air reeked of feted slime and fear.

“Spare some sticks?” the pair would occasionally hear a voice murmur from the gloom.

At one point, two patrolling State officials came upon them and glanced at Beauty’s cloaked figure suspiciously, but at the same time there was a scream from another street and a cry for mercy. The officials ran in the opposite direction and Beauty and Owaine hurried on.

As the tense hours passed, Beauty found herself growing tired. She began to sit limply in the saddle, her hands resting on the pommel and her chin bumping on her chest. Comrade, too, was lagging, his hooves dragging against the roads, for he was not a young horse, nor was he used to such thorough exercise.

“We’ll stop at an inn soon. Yur look fit to drop.”

Beauty jumped at the sound of Owaine’s voice and her eyes snapped open. She had not noticed him fall in step beside her and she looked around, realizing that they were no longer passing alleyways and huts.

“We’re in the Sago suburbs now. Made good time, Beauty. I’m a proud of yur.”

She smiled weakly at him.

“But we can’t stop for long. No one knows what will be happening here.”

They rode on for another hour before Owaine finally halted at an inn. Comrade snorted loudly, stretching his neck, and Beauty stumbled to the ground, her legs buckling as she fell from his saddle.

“Steady, Beauty, steady ’em,” muttered Owaine, going to help her.

She waited in a haze of exhaustion as he booked a room and stalls and tended to the horses. Despite it being so late, other travelers passed on the roads, some stopping at the inn and some continuing on. They had a haunted look about their faces, as if they, too, were fleeing.

“Come on now, Beauty.”

Owaine led her toward the inn door. It was smoky inside, but he guided her swiftly past a raucous group of men and up a set of rickety stairs to a dark room. She fell on the bed and was immediately asleep.

She was awoken at dawn.

“We must go on.”

Owaine’s cot had already been folded away and Beauty blinked at the dim, muggy room. Her limbs ached from the long ride and she groaned softly. She was still dressed in her cloak and gloves and she felt stiff and sore.

“We can’t stop, Beauty. It’s dangerous.”

She forced herself up and climbed out of bed, wincing. The room looked different in the harsh light seeping through the window. The walls were patched with dew, the floor riddled with lice, and the bed sheets yellow. She suddenly wished to leave.

In a matter of moments they were riding on the roads once more, Beauty flinching at every jolt in the saddle and Comrade tossing his head in frustration. They stopped for omelets at a market at mid-morning and then pressed on, heading away from Sago and the Magic Cleansing.

And it continued like that for the next moon-cycle. Beauty’s days became an endless rotation of waking at dawn and riding till night. They stopped briefly at inns and taverns along the way and she ached every waking hour. When her saddle sores became too much to bear, Owaine tried to buy ointment, but every herb dealer and healer had disappeared with the threat of the Magic Cleansing and he could find nothing more than a balm that helped little.

Comrade suffered too. He was a fine riding horse, not a sturdy animal. Had Beauty not been so attached to him, Owaine would have sold him already. Instead, he did everything in his power to ease the old stallion.

“What are you doing?” Beauty asked one evening in the stables of a saloon.

Owaine was rubbing Comrade’s legs in circular motions while the stallion sighed.

“I’m worried he’s gonna go lame.”

Beauty hugged the horse’s face to her chest and kissed his forelock.

“I knows lots of stuff like this that I never showed yur,” said Owaine, trying to distract her. “In Sago, there were always ointments and the like that could do the same, so I never bothered with my Hilland skills. They calls us Hill folk horse whispers, did yur know that?”

Beauty shook her head.

“That’s where horses come from—the Hillands. Some still make sticks rustling the wild ones. I used to do a bit of that in me young days. I got my place at Rose Herm for being a Hillander—Ma always wanted the best.”

At the thought of Ma Dane, Beauty shuddered.

Beyond the suburbs of Sago lay the Strap Cities, which were smaller, paler imitations of the capital. Traveling through them, Owaine bared left so as to remain as far from the Border Cities as possible, as he was concerned with how deeply the rebels had leaked into Pervorocco after the Magic Cleansing.

They received little national news on their journey, preferring to remain anonymous and speak to no one, but occasionally they would hear snippets of conversation.

“ . . . the torturing of Magic Bloods last week in Sago.”

“ . . . they were hunting them all night.”

“ . . . said that they could hear the screams from the boulevards to the shantytowns.”

Beauty glanced at Owaine as they led their horses through a busy part of one Strap City, but his head was turned firmly the other way.

After they had been on the road for three moon-cycles, the cities began to thin and turn to towns and villages. The temperature cooled although it was still summer, and the paved, wide roads became graveled paths. They were entering the fringes of the Forest Villages and stretches of green rolled before them.

“Have you seen the like of that before?” Owaine asked gleefully, pointing at fields of sloping jade.

The lawns at Rose Herm were watered three times a day to keep them from drying out and yet Beauty did not think that they were half as moist.

“The Hillands are greener still,” said Owaine. “Ain’t never seen their match.”

Beauty pulled her cloak closer around her. She wore it always, at first to hide her appearance, but as they moved farther north, it provided much needed warmth. At times she still drew stares if passersby caught sight of her bright violet eyes beneath the hood, but so far they had not been stopped. Neither the Magic Cleansing nor the rebels had reached this far, or so they thought.

One evening, they were booking a room at a lodge house when the landlord pushed a parchment toward them.

Owaine glanced at its contents, the blood draining from his head.

“The State is on the lookout for Magics,” said the landlord, glaring at Beauty. “And the rebels are sending out hunters.”

Beauty instinctively slid her hand beneath her cloak and touched her golden amulet. She kept it hidden always for fear of attracting more unwanted attention, and at this moment the heavy hexagonal disk was scratching her skin.

“I thank yur for this news,” said Owaine in a husky voice. “But this means nothing to us.”

The landlord did not stop looking at Beauty.

“We must go on,” she said, scratching her chest harder. The itch was stinging and it would not abate.

Owaine was taken aback. Just a moment earlier, he had helped Beauty stumble into the lodge house as she was so tired from the day’s hard travel.

“We must go on,” she said.

The landlord nodded and turned away.

“We must go from here,” Beauty whispered, and Owaine did not ask further questions.

They saddled up the disgruntled horses and rode into the night. When they were well away from the town, they stopped in a bare shepherd’s hut in a valley. It was the first time that Beauty did not have a bed to lie on and she did not sleep well.

“At least it’s summer,” said Owaine.

But Beauty had only ever known the humid Sago nights and could not adjust to the cool change in temperature. She did not find the greenness beautiful as Owaine did, or the cows and sheep comforting. It was all faintly unsettling to her.

“We would have to have started sleeping rough soon anyways,” said Owaine. “Once we get past the towns of the Forest Villages then there'll be nothing but hamlets and then the hills.”

Beauty could not fathom these great undulations of which Owaine always spoke.

“Good job we got these here bedrolls,” he muttered before rolling over and falling asleep.

Beauty did not find them as comfortable as her companion. Her body ached from the days of travel and she could feel every lump and rock beneath her. But at last, as she heard the gentle snorting of Comrade outside, she slipped into slumber.

That night she dreamt of State officials in gray uniforms, prowling the roads and paths for Magics. One came to a lodge house and drew his sword asking for information, and the landlord tried to explain that he had seen something, but he could not remember what it was.